


Secret Identity: Robin Hood

by electric_raindrop (cascadewaters)



Series: Secret Identity [2]
Category: Tin Man (2007)
Genre: Gen, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 00:13:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cascadewaters/pseuds/electric_raindrop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every hero has one--sometimes the hero is the only one who doesn't know it...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secret Identity: Robin Hood

I can't believe I'm doing this. I really can't. I mean, besides the fact that it's really not, you know, my thing, not to mention something that no real man would ever do, it's a waste of time. I should be out there right now; I should be drilling; I should be working with the men; I should be inventorying the supplies and making sure that the weapons are in top order; I should be anywhere but here, in a room that I didn't ask for, in a place where I definitely don't belong, writing in a dia-- a di--... a journal, of all things, and one that just appeared on this desk a couple of days ago. I know that I'd locked the door when I'd left, I always do, so I don't know for sure who could have put it here. It's just a blank book, with a plain dark blue leather cover and about a hundred lined pages. I had it checked, and it's not enchanted. It smells like leather and paper and wax. It's got a simple but sturdy spine. If I didn't know that this room had sat unoccupied for fifteen years before I got assigned to it (really--the dirt-poor, dirt-covered half-soldier filthing up a huge room in the royal palace?) I'd think that it had been left here, but the paper's not yellowed, it's sort of gray, almost like it's recycled, which suits me just fine.

So I guess I'm doing this. No one else is ever going to see it, right? I can ask some of the questions on my mind, the questions that will never be answered, that can never be voiced.

I should feel good. I should feel great, actually. The OZ is free from the grip of what turned out to be a witch; my land and my people are free from her hatred and her plans not just to rule the world but to end it; the queen is free from her prison and the prince consort is free from his exile; the younger princess is free to remember, and her sister is free to try to forget; he is free from the iron suit; I am free to... what?

I should be proud, and I am, I suppose. I mean, I was able to help Princess DG free her sister and her realm. I was even able to provide part of the plan and part of the manpower for the final push into the Tower. Granted, I didn't bring a large regiment to the party, but my friends acquitted themselves well. I'd have fought with them, as I always have, but the general under whose umbrella we were added assigned me to the observation point with a field clicker so that I could 'assist with asset placement.' I may be young, but even I know that that was a ploy to 'keep the kid out of the kitchen,' as my mother used to say. But here's the thing: I've been doing this since I turned fourteen, since I ran out of places to hide and decided that I should never have promised my mother that I'd disappear and stay gone. It didn't really matter anymore, anyway--there was no one left to care. I didn't advertise myself, but I realized that I could use my affinity with the woods not only to feed myself but to fund part of the Resistance and harrass the loyalists who were stupid enough to try to take a shortcut through the forests on the witch's errands. Point is, I've been doing this for awhile now, gathering (sometimes leading, always learning from) comrades and possibilities. I wish it could've been different--I actually never wanted to be a soldier--but then, I doubt that most of the people who fought this war wanted to. That having been said, I've learned a lot about this stuff, about fighting and hunting and tracking and soldiering; in the past (almost) three annuals, I've not only had to develop condares of new skills, but I've also had to recall and remaster everything he taught me before... Anyway, like it or not, I'm a military man for now. So why do I feel like a little boy playing soldier?

Don't get me wrong--I'm not under any illusions that I'm good at this stuff; but I should be good enough. I'm almost 17, for suns' sake! But as much as it mortifies me to admit it... I don't know what I'm doing here. I'm supposed to be a leader, supposed to be a man, and I'm stumbling around here in the dark like a blind puppy, running into walls and trying not to whimper and praying that I don't get anyone killed. I've been lucky, I haven't had to bury any of my people, mostly because they're smart and pretty much know what they're doing. Still, they respect me as a man. So why do I wish I were that little boy playing soldier, waiting for his dad to come and catch him and pretend to scold him? I gave up expecting my father to come for me a long time ago; it doesn't matter, it shouldn't matter, it can't matter... so why can't I stop thinking about him, about where he is and what he's doing and whether he thinks about me? Why did my mouth go dry when I recognized him? Why did my knees go weak when he recognized me? Why do I have to fight myself to let him out of my sight? Why do I want nothing more than to be near enough to hear his voice? Why am I terrified that he is disappointed by who I've become, unhappy that he's stuck with me again, ashamed that I'm not at least leading a real army somewhere far away... angry that I didn't save him or Mama? It's been almost eight annuals; why can't I just not care anymore?

It's not like it matters how I feel or how he doesn't; it won't change. The seventeen volunteers who took a chance on following and fighting beside and teaching a 14-annual-old half-trained kid with half a plan have been disbanded, commended, awarded rank, and given the choice of returning with honor to their homes (which most of them, like me, don't have) or being absorbed into Her Majesty's Army and trained properly; I haven't been offered the same choice, just told where to sleep and when to eat. I guess they're too busy to take time to tell me that I don't measure up, since my name wasn't on the list of commissions and postings. I don't mind that much--I'm not gonna lose any sleep not being a soldier. Maybe he's too busy, or just too embarrassed, to come out and say it, and that's okay. It doesn't matter. I'm too old to feel this way. I'm too old to need...

Well, none of this will matter in a few days, in any case. I saw Princess Azkadelia sneaking out of the palace in disguise (how I knew it was her, I'm not sure) and I followed her to one of the poorer livery stables on the far edge of the city. She bought a nag, and she softly answered the liverysmith's sales pitch for a better horse by telling him that she only had enough money for the nag and that the horse had only to get her as far as the fields of the Papay.

She plans to go there, to try to duplicate her sister's healing touch; it's the only thing that makes sense--if she was simply suicidal, there are dozens of quicker ways to go about it, so she must be hoping to accomplish something positive while sacrificing herself. No one else in the palace knows--there hasn't been a royal explosion, and she isn't locked in her suite--and I'm sure that she means to keep it that way.

When she goes, I'm going with her. Somebody's got to be there to keep her safe and to remind her that she is important. I'll leave an anonymous note to be found a few hours later so that they can come to escort her back when she's done what she can for the Papay; she'll be soundly lectured all the way, if I judge her sister and my... Sheriff Cain correctly. Once she's headed safely back to the palace and her own freedom, I think I'll head north--we've been getting reports that the villages up that way are being harrassed by something, and whether that something is animal or Longcoat, they need a hand. Hunting solo can't really be all that different from hunting in a group, can it? I guess it'll be back to living in the trees for me. At least then I might be worth something to someone.

I wonder how long it will take me to learn to stop wishing...

\--


End file.
